


Rude Boy

by sub_bts_smut



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, BDSM, Consensual, Crack, Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Cunnilingus, Developing Relationship, Dom/sub, Domestic, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Femdom, Fucking Machines, Graphic Description, Gymnast Tom Holland, Hair-pulling, Light Domdrop, London AU, Marvel Cameos, Masturbation, Neighbour Tom Holland, Neighbour Tony Stark, Oral Sex, Porn With Plot, Scientist Tony Stark, Set in London, Sex Toys, Shower Sex, Slice of Life, Slow Burn, Smut, Student!Reader - Freeform, Stuntman Tom Holland, Sub Tom Holland, Sub!Tom Holland, Vaginal Fingering, cursing, dom!reader, handjob
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-26
Updated: 2019-04-11
Packaged: 2019-12-18 11:16:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 19,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18248735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sub_bts_smut/pseuds/sub_bts_smut
Summary: ➯ Meeting your gymnast neighbour Tom comes with heated shower sex and an outlandish erotic toy at your disposal.





	1. Cocky Mess

**Author's Note:**

> [crossposted from my tumblr. ](https://submissive-bangtan.tumblr.com/post/184118330405/rude-boy-tom-reader)
> 
>  
> 
> don’t let the title deceive you, we’re headed for a subby tom fic! 💕with some mcu characters mixed in for the fun of it. i wanted to try something different but still keep my style of incorporating a lot of plot, so here it goes. a little story for those frustrated by exams in particular <3

 

 

 

 

 

 

Now that became perfectly obvious to you: This guy was rude.

As if the plastering on the wall alongside the apartment corridor wasn’t porous enough— the hammering bass from flat #89 made it seem like the entire house was bound to corrode in a song or two.

“Hey, you! Turn the damn music down!”

Knocking at the plain door sporting a scraggly ‘Holland, T.’ sign only elicits a faint reply between beats. The voice sounds entirely out of breath. Its pitch is surprisingly high, too.

“Hello? Is this Mister Stank?”

“Who?!”

Almost an eternity passes. Footsteps follow. The door first clicks, then buckles. One second later, a babyface framed by curls peeks through the opening. Slathered in what appears to be a layer of sweat and— oddly, a white film of powder.

Cocaine?

You’re completely stiff at the sight. So that’s Mister ‘Holland, T.’, then.

“Tony Stank! He’s been knocking here earlier. You’re not Tony, though?”

The babyface looks even more innocent and exasperated than it already was by now. If he wouldn’t be all drenched and smelling like a crowded Olympic hall, the gaze would be easy to fall for. All big and hazel.

But you remain solid in your spot. And feel no less irritated.

“He’s called Stark! Not  _Stank_!”

“Stark? I just heard him mumbling something and stuff. Was busy with the weights so I couldn’t open the door.”

You place your arms akimbo.

“Tony lives in apartment #90! You know what that means?”

He shakes his head, which loosens some strands into his face.

“Um, no idea?”

You point down the corner of the hallway with more insistence.

“He lives right next you!”

“And?”

The guy’s voice goes up in pitch once again. Clearly, he didn’t catch his breath so far either. Lifting weights, he said. Poor Tony. 

In fact, poor everyone in the radius of ten miles. 

At least you know that whatever white powder is on his face—

Has to be magnesium carbonate powder.

But is that a good thing? He’s not even on drugs and acting like that. The echo of the music is still making the windows of the corridor reverberate.

“Your music was so loud this morning that Tony did the same thing I’m doing right now, bloody idiot!”

“N—no need to be rude!”

“You’re the rude one! I’m from apartment #88!”

“Oh?”

Sweaty Holland gazes toward the other side of the corridor, seemingly surprised realizing that there looms the precise door you just came from. Apartment #88 in its full actual lack of suburb splendour.

You feel like you’re about to burst any second.

“Yes?! I’m studying for exams and you’re blasting Rihanna! Since 10:30!”

Blank face. The guy really got you to a point where you roll your eyes like a preschooler. He looks disoriented more than anything, rubbing his powdery hands through his hair making it look strangely grey for his age. But something does seem to sway his features, however.

“Damn, shit. Wait a minute,” he says. “Tom, by the way. Sorry.”

The curly head disappears before you can say anything else. While you hear him walking off, the door ever so slowly falls open, revealing an almost loft-like building. You’d be very much at home in your current casual clothing, but the very thought of magnesium and repugnant smell of athleticism has already ruined the sight.

 _Umbrella_  just keeps playing in the other part of the flat. Tom audibly rummages with some sort of dumbbells around the corner. They land and roll on the floor dull, making Tony’s words from yesterday all too present in your mind once more.

‘ _Bloke’s a gym rat! 20-fucking-something, sexually frustrated, IQ of a toast! Walking, cocky mess_ ’, furious Stark in his blue designer shades had ranted meeting you on the way down in the elevator, recalling how he saw Tom moving in the other day.

Given how babyface still seems to be busy with his makeshift gym, you wish he never did.

This is one of the most crowded neighbourhoods.

“Will you please shut the goddamn stereo down!” you tap your foot more than once, still having to put up with Jay-Z’s intro rap droning from the speakers in the flat.

“Um! Searching for the remote!” Tom replies, but you’re already stepping into his training room, ready to either phone the police or take the bumping stereo out of service yourself.

But you can hardly believe your eyes. Gazing into the area, framed by high shelves where towels and isotonic drinks are stacked.

Tom stands there without a single piece of clothing covering him.

No tank top. No boxers, not even socks. His arms serve as a less than adequate shield for his front.

“Um—!”

Looking all browbeaten head to toe, Tom mumbles something all panicked that gets drowned out by Rihanna’s chorus. By now, the entire city of London probably knows about his taste in music. And you: Just about every buff inch of him.

Fuck.

Time to get out of here.

You stumble backwards. Then, almost fall over, stepping on something squarish with your left foot. 

“Ouch!”

Then, out of nowhere, the music stalls.

Complete silence.

You look down and realize that you’re standing on the tiny remote.

“Was getting ready for the shower! I’m sorry!” Tom repeats now that the stereo is off, covering himself with a scruffy towel in the meantime. Well thank god that there are shelves around. Totally makes him look any less naked. You have hardly gathered yourself by now. With a left foot that stings like hell.

“And that’s how you opened the door?”

You know the answer given how Tom’s face changes from pale to crimson red, even visible through the layer of magnesium that not just his face is plastered into. It makes you wonder which odd parts of a body one can work out with.

“Was only peeking my head out! I didn’t know someone would come at this time of the day.”

Tom hurriedly tries to wrap the towel around his hips properly by now, but realizes it won’t cover enough of his backside. He hunches before you more frozen than ever. The silence in the apartment doesn’t help.

You sigh out. This lad indeed is akin to a toast.

“But it’s the afternoon?”

“I was only trying to prepare for the shower!” he repeats, wilding pointing about. “I’m so sorry, I—”

You squat, pick up the remote, and lay it down on the shelf to your right hoping your glare would suffice for him not to lay a finger on it anytime soon.

All this shower talk.

“Exactly where you’ll go now. Fucking twat.”

“T-twat?”

Tom’s jaw hangs loose. He’s still flushed like a two days overdue tomato.

“The entire corridor smells like gym. And get yourself some headphones for Rihanna, thanks.”

Enough seen, enough blabbed. Nobody down this avenue could be grumpier. You bury either hand in your hoodie’s muff and turn. But Tom doesn’t look like he’s heading for the bathroom at all.

“Hey, wait! We didn’t even finish to introduce ourselves!”

“Do I look like I care? You’re wearing a towel! That’s past introductions. Fuck your politeness. Dickhead.”

For the sake of the other apartments and the plastering on the walls, you don’t opt for the now-you-know-how-it-feels door slam, but make sure to shut your own flat off from the sweaty stench in the corridor lightning fast.

Hoping that the barricade would at least block out that, if Tom wouldn’t put on  _Unapologetic_  the next hour. Who knows, you already see it coming. ‘Holland, T.’ arguably was the rudest neighbour you could possibly have. You regret doing as much as step one foot into his reeking apartment. 

  


 

The silver kettle bleeps— you pour up your tea. Needs to sit for eight minutes, the fancy ‘Ayurvedic Relaxation‘ label of the bag says.

You close down the window of your unloved study notes on the laptop, alongside some other worksheets, digital drafts, presentations, and forms that need signatures from what seems to be the entire university. And then: exhale, click the Youtube icon in the bookmarked pages. Eventually, you get comfortable in your hammock chair.

Perfect.

While the tea steams off, spreading a scent of cardamom all around, a soothing voice starts to play in a colourful intro. You alter the laptop volume by three bars for better tingles. Finally: Your favourite. 

_Mantis Chiropractic Medicine. Emotional Relief, ASMR, and life advice._

Only the best cracks! And good-looking clients, too. What a dream. Atmospheric music with flutes and harps begins to chime after the intro jingle right away, making you sink into the hammock all slack. Hell yes.

Soft-spoken and polite as ever, Doctor Mantis begins to explain common side effects of sitting too much and how to remedy them that you stir in your tea, checking the watch: Only six minutes left of Ayurvedic Relaxation. Fair enough.

In the hallway, you hear a door closing while Mantis demonstrates a few carpal tunnel exercises. It’s from the direction of apartment #85. Likely Mister Rhodes returning from the Met Office. It’s 7PM. Punctual as ever. 

Mantis keeps on speaking gently on your laptop, showing a client how to correct his posture while typing.

You have to remind yourself not to get distracted because the notes and presentation are nowhere near finished. One video and you promise yourself to return to at least the mock exam questions. Again, you lean back into the hammock’s sturdy fabric and let the flutes carry you to another place and time.

Mantis, with her flowing black hair tied neatly into a ponytail, situated in the office with her immaculate white gown, already proceeds to diagnose a client on screen with careful spine taps that a fast knock makes you jerk up. It’s not a sound coming from the video.

“Uh— Hello? Are you there?”

More knocks follow.

 

It’s Tom’s annoying voice.

 

“Please go away! I’m busy studying!” you shout, closing down the diagnosis video in record speed to remedy not your back, but conscience. 

“Aren’t you watching a vlog or something?”

Too late.

Three bars on the volume button were a bit too loud. Damn it. Your entire Ayurvedic Relaxation is ruined.

“That’s a, a lecture video!”

You even catch yourself stuttering. For Christ’s sake.

“Are you a medicine student or something?”

The voice remains persistent at the door.

“Tom. Fuck off into your cave, will you.”

To your anger, he actually knocks again.

“Please! At least come to the door! I don’t want to yell. You don’t have to open. Please...”

You rub your eyes.

He has a point. Tony is still working during that time of the day anyways. Not to mention Rhodes. Yeah, Rhodes for sure. He’s always preparing something. You close your laptop fast, slip out of the hammock, grab your teacup for emotional backing— and trot out of the bedroom with a grim feeling in your stomach.

“So what is it?” you grit, now inches away from Tom, but somewhat gladly, with the odour barricade still in place. Ten elephants and a pack of lions couldn’t move you to open that door.

“Y/N. I’m sorry for the music today,” Tom half whispers, half murmurs, now much more deferential.

He’s read your name on the door label. God, no.

“The better apology’s leaving me alone. I can’t concentrate.”

A deep sip from your tea won’t make your annoyance go away either, but you still try and almost burn your tongue.

“With all due respect. If I would listen to lecture videos that loud, my ears would be reeling, too,” he says.

You could stomp the parquet below you to pieces on this very spot. Mister Stark was more than right about Tom. Cocky. Cocky mess.

“Look who’s talking! Rihanna’s bass line was peeling off our carpets this morning!”

You don’t want to know what janitor Rogers thinks about that. 

“Y/N, please don’t yell,” Tom muffles from the other side. “I made enough noise myself today.”

“Oh, really? Never knew.”

“I’ve been using earphones until now.“

Mentally and physically, you give up your Ayurvedic Relaxation once for all and put the mug down on the next best birchwood cupboard. He does have not one, but two points. Maybe he’s not a toast, at least that. Still a bloody idiot, but you have to begrudgingly admit that he makes sense. 

And didn’t touch the remote. 

Just in case, you peep through the fish-eye of the door and see Tom wandering about. Not topless, as far as you can trust your tired eyes. When he turns to the door, you try to read his face. He looks ingenuous. Sad, even.

“Please, Y/N. I just wanted to apologize for being rude. I’m still new here. And now that you’re playing something loud yourse—”

Ugh.

It’s a tie.

Click goes the door. And there you see him stand, in his striped Hello Kitty PJs that are way too tight at the arms, with tiny red hearts printed all over them. He’s visibly scrubbed down, smelling like he’s used four shampoos at once. The curly hair looks kind of bouncy in the harsh light of the hallway.

“Nice to see you dressed for once, Holland.”

“Sorry, I probably look ridiculous.”

You open the door wider.

“Come on in rascal, still have some water in the kettle.”

 


	2. Mantis Chiropractics

Maybe there were no elephants or lions, just you. 

* * *

 

Keen babyface topples into the apartment all wondrous. He’s in his fluffy socks, gazing around seemingly into random directions.

“What are you so stunned for, never seen a girl’s living space?”

“I mean, the furnishings. You have nice furnishings.”

The furnishings. You have to laugh.

‘Holland, T.’, if anything, and at best, is a twenty-something fucking toddler.

You pick up your teacup and walk straight to the kitchen through the narrow center of the flat, Tom following bewildered. He still gazes about for almost half a minute while you sort out another mug from the nearby kitchen cupboard, then pick up the kettle. 

“Am not a med student,” you retort. “It’s interior design.”

“Wow!”

“Not so wow when you have to study for a marketing exam.”

“But normally, I mean,” Tom carefully sits down at the rattan kitchen table, nodding a thanks about ten times in a row when you hand him his cup. “It’s more about the fun stuff, isn’t it?”

“Sure, kind of. Can’t sleep, feel bored, no social life.”

Tom fervently shakes his head.

“But, you know Tony!”

“Doesn’t count. He’s busy with his robotics blog.”

“But you know me now.”

With Tom still blurting, you sit down opposite to him on the table, tea in your right. There really isn’t much liquid left inside.

“Since today. And I don’t really like you. Don’t be a cheeseball,” you chide, and cross your legs.

Tom’s reaction seems more crestfallen and surprised than you thought he would be given how you stormed out of his flat. 

“Sorry,” he mumbles to himself, as if talking to his cup. “I’m probably a bit daft.”

“Hm.”

“Opening, like that, I guess. I was a dickhead.”

Tom fumbles with the sleeves of his PJs. In the meantime, you swiftly empty your mug and stand up again, then squeeze it into the dishwasher. 

“Understatement,” is the only grumble you can muster.

“I’ve tried to ventilate as good as possible. Cleaned up the magnesium. And such.”

“You think your gym hurt my eyes, hm.”

“Sorry for that.”

Maybe the little ‘visit’ wasn’t completely in vain.

“Your apartment isn’t bad,” you shrug. “High quality paint. The style just needs a tweak here and there. You could move the lights toward the shelves and climbing frame.”

Babyface perks up.

“Oh?”

“But you didn’t hear that from me.”

“You, I mean—”

You should’ve just shut up about the lights.

“I know what you wanna say,” you cut Tom short, brusque, arms crossed.

“What do you mean?”

Why on earth did you let him in. Why. 

“I don’t do full consultations or whatever. Not without cash. I don’t even run an agency. My relatives ask me left and right every holiday when I go back home. Sick of hearing it.”

Extended silence. Tom visibly shrinks in his seat until he breaks the stillness.

“I only, I thought, I wanted to say. You’re good at this.” 

More silence until you move to the other end of the kitchen counter to flick the switch of the kettle upward.

“Need another cup of tea.”

Way to go.

  


 

The third empty mug wanders into the dishwasher, leaving it packed to the very last centimeter. Two empty bowls with tomato sauce and formerly microwaved ravioli in them sit at the other corner of the grid, still waiting to get foamed down themselves. The entire kitchenette smells like the pizzeria around the corner and feels considerably warmer.

Tom closes the mock exam worksheet on your laptop. To your surprise, he sports a content smile after reading out the last question to you.

“Fifteen out of seventeen correct,” he announces, leaning back in the chair. “I don’t know what you’re worried about.”

“What were the missing two?”

“SWOT analysis and— Product lifecycle, I think?”

Of course. You should have known. These two just won’t get in your head despite being the easiest to memorize. 

“Okay. I’ll binge those tonight. Thank you for, you know... Huge help.”

He gives a cheery thumbs up.

“That’s no problem!”

“Alright.”

“Gotta make up for this morning.”

“Thought I’d only get half of them right,” you close the dishwasher once and for all. A minute later, water and plates rumble inside. After all this tea, a certain feeling of actual Ayurvedic Relaxation does come up. Tom hands you the laptop back, and you make sure to save all the drafts sitting opposite to him at the table again. 

He stretches in his seat and opens the top button of his PJ shirt. 

“I always get only a third of pushups done when I practice without someone from my gymnastics team.”

“A team?”

“We’re training to enter a stunt academy,” he nods. “Getting our noses broken and stuff.”

Stunts. It was much like him. And what else would he be busy with. Having a body like that.

“You’re quite active there, aren’t you?”

From what you’ve seen in his apartment, he’s probably been working out for a longer time. 

“Every other day, pretty much.”

Surprise, surprise.

“Figure why you need Rihanna to stay motivated, huh.”

Tom looks down, hands clasping in his lap. 

“Am a bit frustrated.”

“Yeah, I know. Mister Tony Stank told me.”

“Stark!”

You grin.

“Just testing. You don’t wanna provoke him again, guy had a reason to rant.”

You don’t want to imagine the atmosphere in the house with Tony being ten times gnarlier. If the science robot guy responsible for the future of humanity is mad, woe is me. 

“With frustrated. I meant that it’s difficult to live here, still getting used to things.”

All you can do is cock a brow at Tom. And strike another provoking tone, because the tea is kicking in.

“Blowing up the entire house with _Good Girl Gone Bad_  is getting used to things, hm.”

“It’s because... I used to have a different type of apartment. Much larger and secluded.”

“I see, a different type.”

You prop up your chin on your hand.

“Didn’t know people were so busy here during the day. And that you were studying and stuff,” Tom scratches his head.

“Yeah. It’s London, coincidentally.”

With janitor Rogers being all too irritable when it came to loud flat inhabitants. 

“What’s confusing is that Mister Stark was knocking and all.”

“He works from home.”

“Oh… I didn’t know that. Shit.”

Tom rubs his eyes now, the realization visibly sinking in. He’s had two cups of tea himself. And you have to admit to something equally.

“I guess— I also feel bad. I mean, the volume earlier. Tony’s in the last phase of writing his robotics book. It’s not just his blog. He started it two years ago.”

“Damn, he’s busy then. Robotics sounds interesting.”

Kind of stupid cranking up Mantis. Stupid as fuck, in fact.

“Should know how it is. Exams are next week. I need a lot of study time.”

“You’re better prepared than you think you are.”

“Hope so,” you shift in your chair.

“Can I ask what video that was? Really thought you study chiropractics or something.”

“Something to relax.”

* * *

 

You open the laptop, set it up on the table once more, and type Mantis’ channel into the search bar. In the meantime, you see Tom gaping at your 3D renderings for the end term design project in the other PDF window. 

Once the video begins, you make sure to tone down the speakers enough for the two of you to hear, but not Mister Rhodes, or Stark, or Miss Ramonda in apartment #80 who switches the lights off around 9 PM each night.

“ _And today I’ll show you how I massage a client’s back to release stress,_ ” Mantis introduces herself after you click on the first video popping up. The most popular one with five million clicks and over 310.000 likes. Tom already sports his stunned face when a few previews for at-home exercises are blended in on the screen.

“Oh damn, nice!”

“Yes, Mantis is great. Love back massages.”

An upbeat tune keeps playing during various bending positions of stretching the neck into ridiculous sets of movement.

“Can you send me a link to that video? That’s pretty useful stuff. For post-workout!”

Before you can answer, the video footage switches to a shot of Mantis in her chiropractor’s office, immersed in massage.

_“And not just stress— Also, tension in the glutes!”_

The next shot makes both Tom and you hold your breath. And realize that the most popular video is nothing other than a guide to—

_“Yes, butt massage!”_

Neither of you knows what to reply despite Mantis being more than nonchalant with it, showing various techniques, also focusing on areas above and below. 

_“Don’t forget the tensors at the sides, and the femoral regions.”_

Easygoing Mantis, breezy tone as before, kneads away with flat palms and fingertips. It’s almost hypnotic.

“She does that, very, well, uh,” Tom keeps on stammering once more footage is shown, with you turning the deepest shade of red known to interior design right next to him. 

It’s weird to feel so bashful. Like a 4th-grader. 

Watching the videos in the hammock, every now and then, and with a straight face for that matter: Would be no big deal. Those were just body parts and actually useful exercises.

But now, with Tom in the kitchen, smelling fucking sexy with his ten shampoos and ridiculous Hello Kitty PJs— things are mighty different.  

“It’s not what I’ve been watching earlier,” you feel yourself sweat, all too conscious how being plain defensive is making it plain... worse. 

Odds being in your favor, relief comes when the footage switches to back massage the next second. Still, you feel all too embarrassed to even look at Tom or pause the video with whatever excuse.

He, however, seems to be quite as cheery as Mantis, or at least, tries to.

“Glutes: Are important. When you think about it. I couldn’t do much without um, mine. For gymnastics, I mean. Core strength isn’t everything.”

“Yeah, yeah right.”

The recording continues with additional massage techniques popping up in the frame.

 _“No need to smooth things over,”_  Mantis chirps, ever so lighthearted— and the video cuts to more close-up footage of ass kneading on several clients.

Oh please no. 

Both Tom and you gawk at the screen like deer in headlights. 

_“We all know how important these muscles are for the most pleasant and wonderful of things! Sometimes, it’s good to let your frustrations go.”_


	3. Glutes Are Important

Joint nervous laughing. Doctor Mantis’ friendly, encouraging smile into the camera doesn’t improve the situation at all. Tom peers up at you as if you had been watching porn before he knocked earlier.

“She’s— Not, not an, err, sex guru I swear!”

He only blinks at your reply. Times more awkward. His words even choke up before he can form them properly. In the background, Mantis continues massaging butts and beaming out of your laptop like a ray of chiropractic sunshine until you press the laptop’s off key by impulse. 

“That’s a, a pretty intense therapy.”

Indeed the Ayurvedic Relaxation has turned into sweat bath on your forehead. 

Dang it, Mantis. 

“I subscribed for the back massages. This, I, I clicked on the first one that came up. Sorry.”

“Is there, I mean a reason you called that a lecture video or something?”

Tom continues to rub is eyes. At least no eye contact anymore. That burden is off you. 

So it slips out. 

“Am probably the real frustrated one.”

He furrows his brow. 

“What’s with that whole frustration thing. I don’t get it.”

Oh dear. The toddler is back. You have to take a deep breath twice. 

“The entire thing started when I met Tony in the elevator. Him headed for groceries, me going to uni library.” So far, so good. But you mentally brace yourself to recite Tony already. “So he starts venting. Saw you moving in and all, the whole drama, judging the book by its cover and such.”

“Wait, what did Tony say?”

Even your back feels sweaty now. 

“That you’re a gym rat and whatnot, and— sexually, frustrated. How he arrived at that, no idea.”

Tom blinks several times in a row now, eyes still looking rather vague.

“That’s what he’s been saying?”

“Maybe it wasn’t the best idea to put some Rihanna on with the risk of  _Kiss It Better_  playing. Nothing against Rihanna.”

“Think it was _S &M _yesterday!” 

Tom makes his puppy eyes again. As if he would be talking about strawberry ice cream. 

You’re starting to think that even Mantis poking butts has better self-awareness. Way better. A hundred facepalms wouldn’t suffice. But you feel too exhausted.

“Are you surprised Tony’s been venting? The guy is busy with formulas. That shit is more complicated than SWOT analysis.” 

“Sure!”

“Do you realize how much mayhem you’ve been causing on the entire corridor since moving in?”

You tap your fingers on the table, feeling like Ramonda scolding the kids from the yard. But who are you to ask whether he’s surprised. Rather, it is a question you should direct at yourself. 

“Did I really disturb everyone that much?”

Now he’s pouting. His hands clasp even tighter.

“I couldn’t study one minute! Memorize the damn product lifecycle, finish my drafts, practice the presentation.”

You point at the laptop again. Tom furrows his brow.

“What, a presentation?”

“Yeah, next week! Oral exam. And I still don’t feel confident with all the slides. I need time”

You sigh again, deeper than ever. The annoyance still has nowhere to go.

“Maybe,” Tom scrambles on his chair, “it’s better if you study by yourself now. Sounds like a lot.”

“It is.”

And he looks more than tired himself.

“If you want, I can listen to the presentation the day after tomorrow. If, if you want. My friends and I go bouldering tomorrow, but after that, I’m free.”

“Making up for things again, Holland. Hm.”

“Enjoyed the tea a lot,” he nods, rising from the seat. “And the ravioli. And, sorry if I was rude again.”

“Cursed you out enough for that, stop saying sorry.”

You really did. Tom must think you are a sailor.

“You mean we’re even?”

“Been blasting my own music too, we sure are.”

Tom nods. 

“I promise not to be a cheeseball either. Still getting used to things.”

He adjusts the fuzzy belt of his PJs, runs a hand through his curls.

“Where to send the link?”

“Oh. Right.” 

Tom sticks his hand into the left pocket of his trousers, unlocks his phone at the speed of a tortoise. It really is late. 11:37 PM says your watch. Oh fuck. 

Then, you exchange numbers without eyes meeting. Tom insists on emptying the dishwasher. 

You have to force your eyes on the clean bowls and cups each time he bends down. The stretchy fabric trials poor Hello Kitty has to go through. Tom must have bought the pajamas before he started working out. His words repeat in your head.

_Glutes: Are important. When you think about it. I couldn’t do much without um, mine._

You occupy yourself sorting the boxes with tea into the designated cupboard. Sweating like mad. Again, he can’t stop talking about how nice your furnishings are. From the Bauhaus style clock to the hammock that’s visible from the kitchenette at the right angle from the counter. 

“Always wanted one. So cool!”

Five minutes later, babyface topples into the corridor with you none the wiser on what on earth he is all about. 

“Sleep well, Y/N!”

And off he goes in his PJs. The hallway lights switch off soon after he left. 

Another five minutes later, you hit send on the message for the link. Sweating even more. Tossing your phone on the couch and treating it as off-limits already.

Another five minutes later, you’re on your bed. Hands in your pants. 

  


 

Rhodes leaves his apartment punctual as always. So does Ramonda, perfectly on time, headed to the bakery at 7:20 AM. You— don’t. 

Exiting the flat hurried with your hair still half wet, you encounter a giant cardboard package sitting almost right before your door. Stumbling across the object is almost inevitable given how large it is. On the upper lid, you spot scraggly writing with black permanent marker. 

**[ FROM TONY ]**

**a small thanks x**

As much as it pains you— Since it’s almost 7:30 and the bus leaves at 7:45, you can’t but shove, no, kick the heavyweight box inside your apartment and lock the door quickly, then sprint toward the elevator. 

Even when the bus leaves and you display your card to the driver, the package won’t leave your thoughts. Small it certainly wasn’t. How would Tony make you such a large present? You were positive that the content, whatever it was, concerned the act of madness that was getting Tom to tone down the stereo. Or his visit to your kitchen.

Your hair dried into a pouf of frizz. What can you do. Sorting through your lockers at university and almost bumping into some students from the design course, a second thought begins to occupy you until lunch. What if Tony thought of you than more than just a neighbor and friend?

You had encountered each other plenty of times. And got close. During menial tasks. Taking out trash, walking down the stairs together, exiting through the underground carpark because Tom’s giant green moving van had blocked the front door. You could freely rant to each other about all problems. He was candid, knowledgeable, and opinionated, making for a good conversation partner to debate just about anything a Londoner could be preoccupied with.

But, no way. No, no fucking way. Tony was too old for you. He was in his late fourties. You’d be guilt-tripped big time if he liked you, with a huge present like that. And Stark was by no means a struggling design student or aspiring stunt man. Or whatever. Tony was said to have lived the American Dream: Rather lavishly in his twenties and thirties before flaunting his wealth, well, a little less and moving to Britain. Robotics were a lucrative business. 

Focusing on the drafts and memorizing the presentation to every painstaking detail becomes harder with your thoughts spiralling into scenarios you didn’t want to imagine. Tony getting jealous after hearing Tom visit you. Trying to impress you with posh gifts. Tony buying you flowers and whatnot. That was just weird. Very weird.

  


 

Back home at 3, you open the box the second you step into the floor, using your key to slice the brown adhesive tape apart on either side.

To your relief, but also concern, an envelope rests between a plenitude of wrappings. The writing is a bit neater than the one on the box, but still with the same striking serifs. Tony really did go out of his way.  

**“Writing’s been going well since power down for Rihanna in toast guy’s gym. Advanced to last chapter and spell checks thanks to u. So, this rarity. Whimsical thing. Shipped to me for Xmas by accident. Had ordered a packbot, got this one instead, sterile attachments included. Somebody’s been trying to play a prank. Kept out of laziness, but never fully unpacked (go figure, because I had no packbot). Concluded it’s of no use for me. But 2 expensive to throw away and ‘Stark’ stands for philanthropy. Been looking for the right person before it catches dust. Think you’d enjoy this as interiors, you’re welcome, no hard feelings. Try what works. Because why not. Might wanna give it a run on brat boy. Heard he likes bizarre things, too. — A.S.”**

You read it again, then put the message down. No hard feelings. Rarity. Packbot. 

What?

You had hoped that the mystery envelope would clarify things, and yet, all it left was more confusion. A love letter it was not. Or was it? Even the ending “A.S.” would perplex you further until realizing that he’d go by Anthony for signatures. 

At least you knew that former rage bomb Stark was finishing up his book successfully and was in a mood so generous that it caught you off guard. You’d have to tell Ramonda about this the next time you saw her. This was completely unseen. The whole package wasn’t filled with flowers either. 

The contrary seems to be the case.

Nevertheless, the box sits rather eerie before you, still overflowing with wrapping paper that pretty much unfolds by itself due to the sheer volume stuffed into the packaging. At a first glance, it is a costly gift indeed, just as you thought. But did Tony really reuse a prank shipping on you just to say thanks? Was it a prank on you, then? You had no knowledge of robots whatsoever. Or what it meant to run this on brat boy— Tom? Nothing could be more peculiar. 

The good thing being: You surely aren’t so bored anymore. 

Additional wrapping paper scatters on the floor, with you pulling out the more voluminous bits. Certainly, upon closer inspection of the item: Furniture it is not. Not even a designer piece. 

_Maybe it’s an exercise machine._

That remains the most plausible option given how bulky it looks before you. Or a massaging device, even. You are almost sure Tony had heard you put on Mantis’ explanation of spine taps and side effects of sitting too much. The walls really are paper thin in this house.

All you can do is dig into the last chunks of bubbly wrapping material and unearth what seems to be a metal construction buffered with pieces of pressed yellow foam. Clueless all the more, you decide to shove the box into your bedroom where you’ve installed the best possible lighting.

Again, you note how straining it is to push the packaging around, so you use a towel underneath to make it slide on the parquet at least a little better. You regret not thinking about going to the DIY studio at university to grab one of those handy boards with little wheels underneath in advance. So, the towel must do.

* * *

 

After maneuvering for five minutes and squeezing the bad boy through two door frames, you can finally look inside with a much better lamp illuminating the darker bits inside. Down there is another elongated case painted in a strange red. You’re squinting. Hard to believe it was really a robot Tony was talking about.

It is only until see that it is labeled ‘attachments’ and carefully pry the cover off that you get what it is. 

 


	4. Eros #3000

Tony had connected the dots— from his perspective. 

From the very start, he had thought of Tom as a pent-up, BDSM-crazed steroid user and now you as a hardcore porn addict, both broadcasting your kinky stuff to the whole house without giving a singular shit, and even watching it together. His present was self-explanatory as much as it was eccentric and raunchy.

The box before you contains just about a dozen or more colorful dildos.

In various shapes, with screw applicators, condoms, gloves, and safety instructions.

| _How To Operate Your Eros #3000 Fucking Machine!_

You almost gasp out loud reading it. Operate your what. 

_Get the best out of your Eros #3000 puchase with these tips!_

You skim over the instructions on the paper, back and forth. Everything from elaborate cleaning measures to maintenance to ‘fiery ideas for use’— illustrations included. And of course, how to screw on the attachments. 

You’ve heard about these things. Fucking machines. 

Whimsical, yes. So much about bizarreness and exercise robots. Out of all interiors you could have ordered, or presents you could have gotten, this was certainly the most outrageous one. 

What on earth, Stark.

One by one, you remove the yellow foam bits to compare the pieces of the device with the drawings on the instructions, further realizing how huge and expensive of a toy it really is. Removing the cardboard from either side with scissors, you understand why it was so heavy to drag around. The entire machine is made from solid, glossy metal.

You have to admit that Tony, at least believing himself confirmed in what he had heard from your apartments, had selected the right person. And you thought he’d try to give you something all sappy to compete with Tom. 

Far from it. 

In a strange type of way, it really was a piece of interiors. Not for the entire world to see, but still an investment. You don’t want to imagine how much Tony’s prank shipping was worth. Rich as he was, he didn’t even bother sending it back. 

Out of sheer laziness. 

Stark was a rarity much like this very machine that now blocked the way to your bed like Tom’s moving van the entrance door. 

Shoving it around with even more care, and almost as if fate had ordained it, you find the perfect socket to plug it in. Behind the bamboo partition you had built for last semester’s final project. A broad and sturdy piece, left to its natural beige color. Perfect as a hiding screen. 

Looking at the device snugly perched behind the partition, you wonder if you’d actually use it. It could catch dust much like it would at flat #90. Or not? The shipping had provided basically every variety of dildo attachment known to man. You cannot help but laugh. 

After picking out a pair of the provided gloves, you browse through the red case and inspect the pieces. It really was a curious adult prank they pulled on Tony. There were attachments as long as two of your palms, girthier ones, even a piece with soft rubber spikes. Another with an opening, flexible tube, and a pump, supposedly for fake cum. The instruction would even detail what type of mixture was suitable to run through the tube. 

You were surprised at how many things were actually possible operating the gadget altogether. 

Another dildo was transparent, made of a jelly-like substance with realistic texture. As a last item, a butt plug.

And all in screaming neon colors. The tenor was: Whoever had pranked Anthony Stark for Christmas certainly had quite a funny taste. Green, red, yellow. Tony handing it all to you as a ‘small thanks’ was even more ludicrous. It sounded like an Onion headline.

_Local ‘Philanthropist’ Gazillionaire With ‘I Know What’s Best For You’ Schtick Gifts Spare Sex Toy to Brawling Millennial Neighbours. Area Student Is Amused!_

You figured that rich robotics entrepreneurs were dealing with these kinds of things on a daily basis, so it wouldn’t be a big deal given how Tony didn’t send the machine away.

The question of responding to him about all of this was already racking your brain that you get the urge to switch it on and just see. Using the instructions, nothing could possibly go wrong, could it. Maybe, eschewing the ‘fiery ideas for use’. But rather, just observing. Yes, only that. 

Try what works, as Tony had written. Try what works. Okay. 

You were curious enough and quite liked a bit of a fun distraction from learning presentations by heart. So you go through the maintenance part, and then, the operational bit on the manual praising Eros #3000 with every possible superlative in each paragraph. 

Turn here, switch there, latch and lock everywhere. It’s not as complex as you thought once you get into it. To your utmost luck, the majority of the machine is already assembled, so it takes only 15 minutes until it looks somewhat rough and ready. 

Indeed it seems more important to pick the dildo of your choice, and it does take some pondering. Fake lube you don’t have. The spikes are a bit too wild for a start. The wobbly jelly one in action would probably throw you into a laughing fit that would likely wake up Mr. Rhodes from his 4PM nap. So, big girth it is. The neon red fella. Why not. You use one of the provided applicators and screw it into place, checking twice after an audible click. 

Alright. 

Looks comfy. 

Another few checks on either side of the machine confirm Tony’s words: It is an interesting piece of interior. The quality work and costly equipment is obvious at first sight. Black platings, a posh little hydraulic system. Or pneumatic, you’re not entirely sure. But it seems quite elaborate. 

Still, you think to yourself how the entire situation, to just about any onlooker, must appear like an outlandish, frankensteinian lab scene. You catch yourself turn several times checking the hallway, full well knowing there couldn’t be anybody around unless janitor Rogers would decide to storm in with an emergency, which had never happened in the three years of your stay in this flat. 

Maybe it is because you still feel Holland’s presence from yesterday. 

So, a test run on Tom was what Stark had suggested. Tony, the millionaire wingman. You were quite confounded how he would play cupid, no, Eros #3000 to you. Perhaps he found out that Tom liked bizarre things in more ways than just hearing him blast Rihanna’s more sexual songs. 

You make sure the partition stays in place almost painstakingly every two minutes by now. The dildo is firmly in place, the machine is plugged in. Just looking at it makes you wonder.

Even if he pretty much seemed all high up in the sky with his futuristic inventions and the damn book, maybe Tony wasn’t as much of an oddball at the end of the day. He observed — heard, forcibly so — quite well that something had happened between you and babyface. Not in the way he thought, but for some reason, he was very much right. Why not. The present was all wacky, and so were you watching butt massages on Youtube, and so was your Hello Kitty neighbour with the fluffy socks.

Picking up the machine’s remote control from the box makes you grin to yourself. You remember yesterday all too vividly. Tom is bouldering today, so Rihanna has to rest either way, headphones or not. It reminds you to check your phone later, but you are all too preoccupied. 

And you’re afraid to text back.

You even left your jacket and bag flat on the ground at the door after returning from the library.

The remote seems to have more than just a speed button to regulate frequency. It also sports one for rotation. Intervals, too. You switch on the lowest possible setting for plain motion. It does get going in a few seconds, making the hydraulics whirr. Pressing rotation, the gadget first stops, then starts to spin. Depite the glossy metal looking rather imposing, it’s not even that loud. You double-check on the remote what else you can do. 

Slow speed increase sounds good. 

You press, and the spin already becomes a bit more compelling. Fast speed increase, on the other hand, looks like a button that you should abstain from by now. 

When the rotation peaks in stagnancy, you select reverse– and it whirrs back to normal, until you press off and Eros #3000 shuts down entirely. You hover your hand above either side of the machine to check whether it got warm. Indeed the hinges emanate a slight heat. 

Y/N owning a fully functional, expensive as hell fucking machine. You have to let that sink in. 

Revealing this ‘rarity’ to Tom? Now that you see it running, and even feel a bit of arousal—

No. 

You’re not going to embarrass yourself again. 

Enough that you confused Tom with Mantis and butt massages and even had the courage to send him the link to her channel. 

Tom, still a bit unfamiliar with Stark’s quirks and blunders, would probably run and hide. Between Tony and you, getting involved in a prank present issue was a fun diversion, maybe a bit awkward. But between two studious people, any distraction from the daily boredom would suffice. But sharing this with Tom, the puppy gaze shampoo guy?

You only know him since yesterday.

The machine does well staying behind that partition. Looking at the dildo box, you think of how it would be for personal use. Likely the only one capitalizing on that would be the Onion. 

_Area Student Hospitalized with Spike Toy Lost in her Ass: Quatrillionaire Philanthropist Gifting Machine Snarls ‘Tch. Millennials Nowadays. Anyway Go Buy My Book!’’_

No, spikes up your ass are off the list. 

The instructions just right before you clearly state that operating the device is much better and safer with two people involved. 

According to the manual, there  _are_  fucking machines for self-usage distributed by Eros #3000, but apparently, way smaller ones. Still nothing you could ever afford out of pure jest. Jelly dildoing yourself before an exam isn’t really what you’ve planned either. Even ordering fake cum online to get the tube running seems like the most nonsensical thing to do. Maybe, the gadget was just there for viewing pleasures only. Tony knew you studied interiors, and he had taken it into account.

And after all, the present was yours to operate. 

Tony, master of bits and bots, had entrusted you to manage it. Deeming you capable.

After detaching the red dildo and rearranging the partition to conceal the machine as before, you still rack your brain as to why Tony seemed to know what Tom was into. Clearly you had complained to Stark various times that you were bored to death and needed something really zany in your life for a change. Tony really got you covered for that one. No doubt. Meanwhile, Tom wouldn’t even let Stark into his apartment and regardless, Tony was sure about that the present was just perfect for Tom to be tried out on by you. 

Having written that Tom liked  _bizarre things._

Stark knew — or perhaps, observed — something you didn’t. Something that was very much unlike the naïve Tom you knew.

  


 

Last slice of pizza: Gone. Juice boxes: Empty. The little projector device flickers on the glass table where the all too familiar blue piece of paper rests, alongside your phone. Outside of the living room window, a few ruffled pigeons hop left and right on a nearby wet chimney top. London rain. Glorious, every time.

Tom, seated laxly, keeps on stretching out the exercise band he brought along while you go through over fifty bullet points. It’s hard to ignore that his shirt is much tighter today. No more Hello Kitty. Just plain grey color. 

“Over here, we position both the gas stove and fridge.”

His biceps look more supple than even the biggest of your pot plants. Straining against the fabric putting more than one seam in danger with each time he spans the green elastic band over his head.

“We want the layout to be rectangular rather than square so the asymmetrical distribution of the furniture will make sense, like this.”

You press the central button of your presentation clicker, hand shaky. A new slide zooms up displaying a 3D model from your drafts. A calm Tom nods along from the couch, continuing his stretching exercise with the rubber band.

“We place two metal chairs at the kitchen bar, five wooden ones opposite the radiator. The layout requires a round table, otherwise, the carpet will overlap with one wooden chair.”

Commotion on the sofa.

“But, why is the A/C on the left and not the right?” Tom asks, moving the green band behind his back now, but still continuing to expand it with either arm. He’s doing a better job ‘ _coming up with critical questions so I’ll be prepared for the exam committee asking me things_ ’ than you thought. 

“Good point. Over there, we have two windows with isolation. The radiator covers this area,” you enable the laser pointer on your clicker to aim at the model. “But the oven might be in use pretty often, so the air flow should ventilate this aisle where the most people will lounge. Otherwise, the other spot gets way too hot in July, August.”

“Alright, too hot, I see.”

Tom smiles almost sheepishly, bends his torso a tad forward while maintaining tension on the band. Even from your spot at the other end of the living room, you see his chest bulge out the shirt fabric. Even two perky little buds showing on either side. Holland, T. — sitting on your sofa with hard nipples.

You click again, feverish, trying to make the next slide pop up and alleviating your tension, but no 3D model shows up. 

Instead, the slide just reads: “THANK YOU FOR LISTENING!”

Tom puts down his rubber band to deliver applause with tiny claps, making dorky faces along the way. 

“That was great!”

You make a little awkward bow in reply, then walk over to the glass table to switch off the little projector. 

“Gotta return this one to Rhodes tomorrow,” you say, and place the clicker next to the device as well. 

Tom lightly brushes his palm against your right upper arm. 

“You’ll do well, Y/N,” he beams. And the puppy gaze is back.

Even seconds after his touch, you can still feel it fade through your long sleeve shirt. Too hot, I see. 

“It’s in five days,” you blurt out, still fumbling around with the projector. Tom hands you the circular lense cover from the other end of the table. 

“Here!”

“Oh, right. There it is.”

You screw it on feeling more than fluttering in front of him.

“Quite a handy thing, could Rhodes lend it to me as well?”

“He uses it once in a blue moon or so, sure you could. Are you presenting something for the stunt academy or something?”

“No, for watching Mantis’ exercises!”

Mantis’ exercises. He really did check out her videos. You haven’t touched your phone ever since.

“You, you found something useful on the channel?”

“There’s a new video up since this morning,” Tom nods, then picks up his elastic band again, stretching it out diagonally before his chest. “She recommends doing this for your trapezius muscles. And cervical vertebrae.”

“C—cervix what?”

You gape at him in disbelief. 

Tom puts down the green band on his lap and points at the back of his head.

“The neck bones. Here!”

“Oh, uh. Yes. Neck bones, right.”

“And the trapezius— here,” he shifts on the couch again, enough to bend sidewards. He brings up his hand quite weirdly to indicate the area around his shoulder blades. They look even more defined than his chest. “Can you see it?”

Tom smells so good up close. Maybe deodorant. Or more of that shampoo. Or aftershave. Whatever he’s doing in the shower after sweating his soul out, it seems to work. 

“Yeah,” you mumble, trying not to make your gaze linger for too long. “Heard her mention it once in a video. I mostly watch just for the ASMR, I wish I remembered all the terms for back muscles and all. Too much 3D models in my head currently. Always think I forgot something.”

“If you want, I can show you the terms,” Tom shrugs, wrapping up his elastic band. “You already know the models perfectly.”

“I did?”

Tom waves with the blue piece of paper before him. 

“You got all fifty bullet points down.”

“Come on kid, you’re lying.”

“I want you to pass so I can’t lie,” he grins. 

“That’s some cheeseball shit. Me to pass?”

“Wouldn’t be here otherwise,” he taps a finger on the blue paper again. “Skipping exercise and listening to talks about ovens and carpets and such.”

Even bringing his elastic band along just because.

“Tom… You don’t have to do that for me,” you shake your head. “We’re already even. I don’t want to be the reason you don’t get the stunt job.”

“I did enough bouldering yesterday if you ask me,” he rotates his wrists, as if in continuing his stretching programme. ”Think I’m prepared.”

“Was it fun?”

Judging by how Tom lightens up, it truly was.

“Always nice outside. I saw some speed climbers! Was good for the erectors.”

“For fuck’s sake.”

You sigh right out, and Tom starts blinking. 

“Sorry, what?”

“First cervix, now erections.”

“E—erections? I mean what’s close to the ligaments. Erectors.”

“I should pay more attention to Mantis,” you let yourself collapse on the other end of the sofa. With your brain nothing short of a mush. 

“Took me some time to memorize when I was getting started myself,” Tom gesticulates, “but I have to learn it for the academy.”

“Are there tests as well?”

“Kind of,” he shrugs. “There’s this an entrance examination. Pretty hard I heard.”

“Probably difficult to quiz you on that.”

“My teammates always try, but they’re kind of ticklish,” Tom laughs, scratching the back of his head. “But I try my best memorizing. I want to get into the academy in two months.”

“What do you mean, you tickle each other to study?”

“No, the whole back muscles thing.” 

“Oh, right.”

“Yes. Point and name. That’s how we memorize things and stuff. Mantis is helpful for that, too.”

It’s not all about lifting weights to Rihanna, apparently.

“Point and name. Hm. Sounds interesting, though.”

“You can try it!”

“Sure, what’s that pointing all about.”

“You point, I name. Are you okay with that?”

“Cool, but point where?”

“One sec,” Tom says—

And pulls up the lower hemline of his shirt. 

You feel like your eyes are millimeters close from falling out. Back in his apartment, no spot was left to imagination indeed. But this close, you see more than just chiseled abs. You see his smooth skin. How toned his back really is. 

Halfway up, Tom reaches under the shirt. To your surprise: Down comes a white tank top that’s been under the grey fabric all along. A much tighter piece than the t-shirt. Oh shit. 

Tom pulls off the rest of the t-shirt. The remaining tanktop is in fact a V-neck, neatly circumventing his biceps and connecting quite high up in the back. Even looking makes you squeeze your lips tighter. You’re not gonna drool all over him, fuck no. 

“Ready when you are!”

 


	5. Lessons In Anatomy

Almost mindlessly, your hand snakes to the radiator behind the couch, turning the vial up. 

“Don’t get cold, Holland.”

As if you yourself aren’t warm enough already looking at him. 

“It’s alright, been stretching long enough,” he smiles, folding his shirt onto the glass table. “Okay, the rules.”

“Rules?”

“You place your finger at a random part, I have five seconds to answer. Maybe we can pull up some chart thingy on the laptop to see if it’s correct.”

Random part. Random part. What fucking random part. 

“I just, uh point!”

“Yes, you can choose,” Tom turns on the sofa, fully exposing his back toward you. “Check the watch!”

Five seconds. How on earth are you going to last just one with your hands on his body. 

But seeing Tom so innocently settle still on the sofa looking like a pupper waiting for the stick to be thrown— 

* * *

 

Outside, London may be dull and cloudy, but right before you: Stars in your vision. Hardly can you grasp for the laptop from the table, googling up whatever anatomy chart isn’t too pixelated and small. Latin names all over. You pick an illustration with just about ten labels. Even glancing it over twice won’t make you remember even the short words. 

“Okay, I point!”

Instinctively, your index goes toward the central part of his back where the tanktop seems the sturdiest. Oh my god. The spot where you place your finger is rock fucking hard.

“Wait, uh.. That is— Latissimus dorsi!”

As soon as he says it, your finger drops from the spot. Fiddling, you draw the laptop close, trying to calm yourself. Okay. Ayurvedic relaxation. No panic allowed. It’s just stunt stuff practice. You gaze over the illustration deciphering what seems to blur before you. Dorsi something something. Why can’t you find it. Fuck Latin. You need something from the central back area.

And yes. Upon second glance: There, around the middle area of the picture. Somewhere over the kidneys.

“Correct, I think? Dorsi muscles?”

“That’s the one!”

“And next, uh—”

No risky shit now. You move your target spot just a bit inward toward the spine. Harder than even the first place. Tom breathing even makes it shift around a bit. Checking your watch seems about the best distraction you could have right now. 

“5, 4, 3...”

“Erector spinae!”

“The one you mentioned?”

You even forget to pull your finger off his back. 

“Yes!”

“O— okay.”

You look at the laptop again. Finger still in place. Erection spinach. Or was it erectus? What the fuck.

“Sorry, the full name was?”

“Erector spinae.” 

“Hm.”

“Runs alongside the spine. Straightens it. Need it for lifting in particular.”

_Okay, Tom. Okay. That sounds plausible._

Again, you check the picture on your laptop, moving the cursor around so that the screen won’t fade. 

“The one that is horizontal? I think it’s correct, uh.”

Focus. Focus.

“There are two horizontal muscles in the back,” Tom replies. “Rhomboideus major as well. Not just erector spinae as far as I remember.”

Oh no. Two at once. 

“What the fuck! This game sucks. Rhombo what?”

Tom looks a bit helpless, shifting on the couch. Eventually, he raises his brows questioningly at you. Puppy gaze 2.0.

“Shou— Should we switch and I show you? ”

You squint at Tom.

“Me, on the guessing end?”

“No no,” he already splutters, “I point and I name.”

“Well, alright.”

You huff out, then turn on the sofa facing the wall, back towards Tom. Why not clinch some fucking Latin and squeeze it between the SWOT analysis and Product Lifecycle parts in your brain. You settle just before a ruffled pillow, sitting on your heels as stable as the sofa permits. 

Spinae muscles. It really is a world of its own.

“I just need a look,” Tom bends to turn toward the illustration displayed by the laptop on the table, musters the labels. “Okay. Rhombodeius major first.”

You don’t believe one bit that he needed to memorize it again.

The rain keeps leaving droplets on the window. Some rusty downpipe is leaking outside, guiding a stream of water onto Rhodes’ balcony. It laps against the cold stone without a pause. In a way, the burbling noise is pleasant to take in. You have to keep still not to twitch feeling Tom’s gentle left hand take rest on your shoulder blades. The touch is warm and stimulating. It alleviates something.

“So… Major means that what?”

“Larger of the two.”

His hand moves slightly upward. 

“Minor is here.”

Oh yes. You feel it. 

His fingers are apt. Going a bit deeper than before, even.

“It’s less on the surface, right?”

“You got it,” Tom keens. “Back muscles are essentially layers. Especially around tendons and that.”

Softly, slowly, he continues to palm at the area. You feel a languorous tingle wander up and down your spine already.

“They’re the vertical muscles, right.”

His hand wanders alongside your shoulder blade, tracing the area in broader motions. Still, the movement has a delicacy to it. Elegance, almost.

“Yes. You feel it?”

Feel is an understatement. Your whole body is kindled. In the best of ways.

“Uh. Kinda.”

You try to concentrate on the noise of the rain. Lord knows babyface can move his damn hands well. For someone supposedly so messy, his movements are—

Making you feel as if Mantis herself was right there massaging and talking. 

“The cervical vertebrae are pretty close up there,” he further traces his palm, now headed towards your neck area. With two thumbs, Tom goes over each bone. 

“Four, five, six, seven.”

“Oh my god. Oh shit.”

You almost bite your tongue. 

“Yeah, lots of ‘em.”

“No, I mean. That’s how— the videos showed it.”

The pillow before you can’t serve you enough as a spot to dig your fingers into.

“Spine tapping’s really cool,” Tom’s thumbs go on punctuating alongside your backbone. “Wish I could do it.”

“Aren’t you doing it right now?”

“Ah. I’m just counting. Should I go on?”

“Yes, yes.”

By all means, yes.

Tom’s wonder hands embark on a trail down further, counting every vertebrae of your spine until arriving just above the tailbone.

“33,” he says. “Do you want to know the regions?”

“M—hm.”

Regions, he says. What regions. Femoral regions? No, that’s elsewhere.

Tom’s hand moves upward now, again tracing the way back where it came from.

“Coccygeal region is the lowest part. Sacral is above.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I feel it. Makes me gonna sleep well tonight, I tell you.”

It’s been four days since a few solid hours, even the comfort of the hammock doesn’t help to make you calm. Tom, however, does.

“Lumbar is next. Thoracic region— here.”

He taps on the upper part of your spine. Touch all the warmer through the fabric. You bite your lip.

“Wasn’t one missing?”

“Here. Cervical region. Sorry.”

“Don’t sweat it, PJs.”

Tom kneads his digits into your neck. Pure bliss. 

“I like that one best.”

“Most sensitive area.” 

“I know, hm.”

“When doing stunts, always protection. Always stretching. Easily hurt there.”

“Yeah. Protection is important.”

“Can’t go without it.”

“For cervical... stretching.”

“Is it good?”

“Holy fuck type of good.”

All-turned-on-type-of-good. 

What else did you expect. He’s a gymnast. Doing this all day. 

You sit entirely still by now, intent on his movement. The rain keeps washing over the balconies outside. All you do is stare at the wall in front of you blank.

“There’s a special way we do it at training,” he starts, but sounding as if he still probes.

Whatever it is—

“Go right ahead. I love stretching.”

Blatant lie within the context of P.E. at your former school, plain truth in the context of Tom sitting right behind you letting his hands to the work.

“Alright, so,” Tom’s second, tapping hand glides to the bottom of your spine again. “The coccyx has fused vertebrae,” he kneads. “They open nicely when you bend the cervical region. If you can lean forward a bit, please?”

Nothing easier than that. 

Pop. 

Something does feel less fused now. 

“And now I need tension on the glutes, do I,” you giggle, gnaw down on your bottom lip. You could swear feeling his touch become unsteady for a moment. And his breath a little faster behind you.

“Glutes? Well if you want them in the exercise? Sure I mean—”

You can hear the shy smile in his voice.

“Would you try it, Tom? I like how you massage.”

More coy fumbling at the base of your spine. 

“Okay, keep it tense here.”

Tom’s right hand taps on your neck. His left trails down your tailbone. You adjust posture. Something more does open nicely. 

“That’s good,” you puff out, trying to keep your neck in good position.

“I do them interchangeably now.”

Your glutes, you suppose. 

“Long as it doesn’t strain your erector too much.”

“It might, I, I need to keep the stretching up.”

You grin to yourself. Holland really is cute.

“I dig that. Now,” you shift a little backwards toward him, just an inch. “What’s with the glutes again?”

Tom rings with words. But the rain swallows all his mumblings and brings out the courageous touch.

“The left one first, okay. I’ll press down.”

“Yes, mh.”

Tom’s hand starts to cup, then curve into your left ass cheek. Utmost, testing care. If Tom wouldn’t count along tapping your neck with his other hand, and the rain wouldn’t patter against the window, you’d probably hear a choir of fifty angels blare on the Thames’ boats. 

“Eight, nine… Is, is that okay?”

As much as your neck position permits, you nod. More testing. He finds a spot feeling tight on second try. 

Whew. 

“You can turn the radiator down, please.”

“Oh, sorry. Are you too hot, Y/N?”

“Very much.”

Briefly, either of his hands leave your body craving, and you hear the vial turn. 

“We try the same for the right side just like that. Alright?”

“You’re skilled.”

“Trying— Trying my best.”

And on does he go on the right side. The more he kneads and helps your back retain the tension, the more you hum along. So good. So tingly.

“That entrance exam,” you murmur, unabashed to wind under his hands an inch more than earlier, gaining more of the friction at his fingertips. “Child’s play. You pass at the snap of a finger.”

“Thanks a lot!”

You can tell that he’s mimicking everything from the video. You’re starting to think that Tom has a lot of feeling for ASMR. 

“Since when are you actually practicing all this, PJs.”

“Decade or so.”

“A decade of butt massages?”

“Ah no no, I meant gymnastics!”

“I’m fooling around. Halt for a sec.”

Gently, you twirl from his touch, rotating yourself onto your back. 

“You don’t like the massage, Y/N?”

“C’mon cheeseball, you know that you’re good at all of this.”

Tom reacts with a rather sunken face.

“Mister Stark. He is always telling me I’m not clever with these things. Girls, and—”

“Tony’s got his view on things. High from above. You aren’t dumb. He’s just an ass to you there. He can be, sometimes.”

“I don’t know why Tony doesn’t like me.”

His shoulders slump down at that. You still wonder. It brings you back to the moment you tried to find out what Tony observed about Tom. Whatever inspired the present to come along. The bizzare things line.

“He will have to like you when he knows that I do. Changed my mind about ya, lad.”

Freeze. Tom doesn’t know where to put his hands.

“Is that why you’re making, I thought, all these—”

“Innuendos?”

“Innuendos.”

“I like your body. I know that you probably get that a lot. But I really do.”

Tom promptly shakes his head. You should have guessed he’d be in disbelief. Lack of self-awareness plastered all over him again.

“The other guys from my team. They’re much more handsome, deep voices, and such. Taller. I’m not that special. They probably have better chances with the exam because of that anyways.”

You could have figured.

“Hey, Tommy. Don’t act like I haven’t seen you naked and let you in here.”

“They say I’m annoying as well… silly. And I have no experience with stuff like this.”

“I sent you the link, it’s not that you aren’t advancing fast. Eff those guys.”

“Y/N, did it really feel good?”

“Only you asking that could possibly ruin things, hm.” You smile at Tom, then reach up to pinch his cheek. “You really don’t get compliments a lot?”

Cute face, toned body, would that ever go out of fashion anyways?

“Not so often. They just think I’m a gym guy with no brain or something.”

All too familiar words. 

“Follows you around, that rep. Does it?”

“I’m trying to learn new stuff and all.”

You get it. Tom wanted to have some other appeal than just spinning through the air covered in magnesium. And getting his nose broken or whatever. Of course he knows all his complicated Latin stuff.

“I liked the massage,” you point at your neck. “Don’t worry too much. And you said a decade. That’s experience enough.”

“No, for sexual things. In, in relationships.”

“I know. But it’s what I mean.”

“With the gymnastics?”

You tap your watch’s glass and let have Tom a peak on the time. 

“Would rather have 43 minutes of massage than some smug guy pound away and leave in five and I’m not even turned on by then.”

“Did someone treat you like this?”

You puff out.

Oh boy.

“Got reasons why I spend time designing in the uni studio and don’t, socialize I guess.”

“That’s not fair to you!”

“Can’t complain with you here now, can I?”

You send Tom a cheeky smile over.

“Did I, I—”

“Turn the radiator down, sure you did.”

“Yeah, it just got warmer,” Tom sets his gaze outside the window, but you draw his face back with a hand cupping his chin. What the rain does can wait.

“Turn me on, s’what you did.”

“Ah…”

“You’re sexy. Tony— Those chaps can run their mouths all they want. I know I said I’m frustrated and all. But I mean that.”

“Don’t be sorry. You’re very talented doing, I mean all these things. You’re always at the library, aren’t you? I didn’t know someone so busy would enjoy a massage. ” 

“You mean someone as crude. I talk a lot of shit.”

“I’m cool with it. You’re not like Stark anyways.”

“He has a generous streak, sometimes,” you retract your hand from his chin. “Not the friendly neighbourhood robo guy way but, generous. Guy’s a work in progress like his bots.”

“Hm, I guess.”

He looks down. 

“You sound like he called you worse things than I did.”

Tom does seem a little disgruntled at the mention of him.

“He looks at me strange when we meet in the hallway.”

“I think he’s been scrutinizing you. Tony thinks we’re up to something. Watching porn and whatnot.”

Tom’s eyes go wide in a sudden flare. 

“He does?”

You fidget with the seams of your shirt. 

“The walls are paper thin in here, Tom.”

“You mean, he heard the Mantis video or something?”

“Yes. Misheard, so to say.”

“It was just a chiropractics video,” Tom grunts. “What’s going on with him.”

“Tony also thinks you’re into some, bizarre things.”

The wording of the letter remains in your head quite vividly. 

“Bizarre?” Tom cocks his head.

“You had Rihanna on the stereo.  _S &M_ will give a billionaire science neighbour some odd ideas I’m guessing.”

“But I was just working out to that!”

You shake your head.

“Tony won’t know. He only  _hears_.”

The most dastardly things, apparently.

“All I did was a couple sets of chest press, some lunges, calf raise,” Tom counts by his fingers. “And pull-ups.”

You nod, but the V-neck has long told you that. And that you ate three more slices of the pizza than Tom did. Special diet. He’s not fooling anyone. If someone gets accepted at the stunt academy, it’s the ‘ _I carry my elastic band everywhere_ ’ boy.

But why is he the last one to believe that?

You lean further toward him, point at his chest.

“So you didn’t exactly breathe, I mean, normally. When you worked out, I mean.”

“Kind of impossible if I don’t wanna suffocate?”

You’re starting to realize how living directly next to ‘Holland, T.’ in apartment #90 must be like.

“Stark. He thinks... you’ve been moaning along to chains and whips excite me. Doesn’t he.”

“He thinks we’re weirdos, right,” Tom lowers his voice.

“All three of us are weirdos.”

“True that.”

“The only normal person around here,” you point toward the other side of the apartment with your thumb, “is fucking Rhodes.”

Tom gazes over to the glass table, then slides off the blue paper with the 50 bullet points from the projector. The table has become a mess over the course of the afternoon.

“I’ll be sure not to be a weirdo asking for the projector. And, and moan.”

You’re starting to realize that the couch might not be the best place to resume things.

“We can tidy these things up.”

“Yeah, right.”

“And... do some new stuff after that if you want,” you graze your fingers over his right shoulder much like he did after your presentation. “Okay?”

Tom looks at your hand from the corner of his eyes while standing up.

“I like new stuff.”

He picks up the elastic band, juice containers, and pizza box while you close the laptop.

“Shower together?” you tilt your head toward the other end of the living room.

He grabs the box tight. 

“We, we can.”

“You didn’t see my other bathroom yet. Not the guest one. The actual one.”

“There are two?”

You can’t help but smile at the way a wow is written all over his eyes.

“By the end of the day you showered three times, Tom Holland.”

“It’s okay, I got a little sweaty on the sofa.”

“What I’ve thought,” you reach for your phone on the table, and switch it off. As if you didn’t bother with it since yesterday in the first place. Don’t these articles online say that’s a good thing when you like a guy? The V-neck certainly has your eyes and hands enthralled enough. 

  


 

It’s not the leaking downpipe that fills the room with a pattering noise now. Tom already eases under the water to turn the chunky metal handle to a medium warm, his back turned to you in a halfway profile. Without Hello Kitty and dishwasher chores in the way. You don’t think the radiator needs to be switched on at all in the bathroom.  


	6. Your Turn

His eyes crinkle into a smile when he sees one of the wooden massage roller Mantis advertised in her video stand in the cupboard opposite the narrow shower stall. Meanwhile, you get busy flicking the lighter on and off for some candles on both the basin and the other end of the bathroom, setting them up on the edge of your bathtub. Feeling cheeky like Tom’s backside.

“We skipped the awkward undressing stage on your part last time already.” You gaze toward the shower stall that begins to be covered in steam from the inside. 

He makes that noise again while you store away the lighter next to Mantis’ massage roller.

“Ah…”  

“You’re one rascal stripper.”

Tom couldn’t be any more flustered under the stream of water. “Maybe it’s a gymnast thing.”

A minute later, you peel off your long-sleeve shirt and grab a bottle of shampoo. Peach-colored, almond and passion fruit. Cruelty-free. Made to slather the stunt guy next door in.

Tom casts his lids downward once you kick off your jeans and striped socks.

“Hey. Fuck your politeness, PJs.”

Only when you tap his chin up with your index, Tom lifts his gaze. You’re still outside the stall with your panties on, the glass door wide open. Some steam and spray from the shower head emerges around your feet already. 

But you take your time sliding down the piece of underwear almost torturously to see Tom get all puppy gaze and hard. You hand him the shampoo bottle for his fidgety hands to have something to occupy themselves with. 

“Don’t want to be a cheeseball, but—”

“Yeah, I know. I have nice muscles. I train twelve times every day. Kickboxing champion 2015 and all consecutive years. Bench pressed janitor Rogers and his dog yesterday. Lad’s 194 pounds.”

“Sounds busier than Tony.”

You flick your panties onto the existing pile on the coarse bathroom rug, then straighten to climb into the stall.

“Sure am.”

“Y/N, the step,” he cautions, reaches his arm across the stall for you to hold on to. You grab his underarm with not a second of hesitating. Touching his skin makes you feel like being on the sofa all over again and counting to five. 

“Thought you’d hand me an umbrella. But that’s also nice.”

“Sorry, left that one over in #89.”

You press against him tight, his arms half closed around you. Between huggable and Ayurvedic relaxation, Tom is both, and wetted down on top of that. Neither of your boobs knew befriending the firm inhabitants of a V-neck would sweeten your exam weeks.

You don’t have to study Latin to know those.

Nice pecs.

“It’s your turn first.”

“Okay.”

“Only thing I need from #89 is Mister Holland with what’s against my belly. What do you say?”

A more than nice and perky dick almost poking into your belly button. Indeed a curious soul.

“I like it.”

Tom absentmindedly fiddles with the shampoo bottle, attempting to open it with one hand, or rather, one thumb. He doesn’t even seem to notice at all. 

“Next time we cut down on tea.”

He’s shakier than you thought. So, you end up smoothing the bottle out of his fingers and pop open the cap with the nail of your thumb. “Tell me about stunts.”

Tom is quick to answer. 

“I was, I was set on fire once. I mean for a scene.”

You squeeze some of the creamy shampoo into your palm until it covers about a third, and distribute it with both palms.

“Just how hot was it?”

The shampoo goes on Tom’s chest where you circle it in, with the majority of the lotion dripping down — the bits washing across each of his abs with a little help from your swift fingers. 

“Not this hot, certainly!”

Rascal looks cute biting his lip. You go on rubbing. What he can do with his spine tapping, you can do with your eyes closed on his damn chest. 

“You and I like hot things, do we. What else?”

Tom’s gaze is roaming frantically across your face, already dripping with something lusty, something that yearns. 

“It’s your turn with the rules now, Y/N.”

“Oh can I,” you press your breasts against his torso, close enough to pick up on his every breath. And how much his hard-on strains against you. “How about five seconds for a kiss. And I see how I enjoy it. Good chances, Tommy.”

“What happens if you like it?”

“I do this.”

The fingers of your left glide between your belly and Tom’s to find the desired grip. His cock feels rigid enough to pump up and down, but soft alike so your palm encounters flexible ground. The remaining shampoo from your hand is just slick enough to give it a jerk.

“Shit...”

“And if you gotta try harder, this.”

With Tom gritting his teeth comes a halt of your fingers, further teasing his cock in its upright position between your bellies.

“Got it, got the rules,” he puffs out, trying to gain composure. 

“Ready when you are.”

Tom sucks your bottom lip between languid breaths. You can tell that he tries to calm himself down with deliberation. When he parts, you reach to stroke his hair under the stream of water. It’s gone a bit wavy.

“You don’t have to worry about Tony saying you’re not good with girls.”

“Thank you, Y/N.”

“You know what happens when I enjoyed it.”

Tom’s posture stiffens when your grip on his cock does, too. Faster pumps. He’s moaning. 

“Next try’s with tongue.”

You can feel his hands trace about the base of your spine as they did on the sofa when the five seconds kick off. In come his lips and nibbles, but then, an agile contender dipping past your bottom row of teeth. It’s how you thought it would be. Tom was an athlete. Of course he was nowhere near unaware of how the tongue was all muscle in and of itself. 

4,3. 

He becomes greedy tasting you with flicks against the roof of your mouth. With the onset of the 5th second, you stop rubbing at the tip of his dick.

“Naughty.”

Tom whines out leaving your lips.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”

“Try it deeper. Go slow. Ready, set, cocky boy.”

You keep your palm tight around his shaft for him to endure the squeeze of it alone. Advising Tom to go slow proves to be tantalizing enough for how wet you already are. Added the drip of the shower.

He slicks in more steadier, now plunging, making your lips narrow down on him. Even before the fifth second ends the kiss, your hand almost automatically takes up stimulating him again.

“Fucking good.” 

“Yes?”

“That went from naughty to pretty.”

There goes the puppy gaze. You poke at Tom’s left cheek.

“Hot… I’m so hot.”

“My words, PJs.”

Water continues to douse the two of you. The candles melt through the steamed glass of the stall with soft, amber halos. Your right hand sneaks around his waist reaching for the temperature handle. It’s one of those handles that you have to be careful with not to turn too much in either direction. So you hardly manage to turn it to an appropriate level of coldness first try. Tom, standing under the major part of the water stream, almost gets a shock frosting.  _Almost_. The brief cold splash makes his dick in your hand even more sensitive than it was.

“It’s gonna— nh!”

“Sorry, wait a sec.” The handle snaps into the right place with a second turning motion, and finally, moderately warm water comes down. “You ready for the last part of the game? I wanna use my own.... kiss.”

Tom gives a sharp nod, inhaling. 

“Okay, ah!”

“Hold on tight Holland, don’t wanna slip,” you align his hands with your upper arms. Letting go of Tom’s cock serves almost the opposite effect of alleviation. He twitches. Ravishing.

While you bend far enough to hover your lips over his crotch, planting a kiss on his abdomen. Nicely shaved. Smelling good. Tom makes sure to hold on to you even tighter when he realizes that you slip his cock into your mouth without further teasing after making sure that all shampoo remnants have washed off. 

“Oh my God...”

All you hear is Tom in his last efforts not to make Rhodes, Ramonda, and Tony know about cumming on your tongue. Although the water doesn’t provide much lubrication, you take your time sliding down your lips on him to milk out a few more drops. Warm on your tongue, copious. Throbbing until the last bit has spurted out.

“Good babe, are you, Tom.”

He still can’t calm down his quivering breath. You’ve popped off, turn the shower handle to its off point. 

The candles flicker at the other side of the bathroom while you nip at his lips a little, and distribute some of his semen wherever and how far your tongue reaches between them. 

It tastes a little sweet, a little bitter. Your skin gets a bit colder now that the water is gone, and pearls off downwards. He swallows.

  


 

The bath gown is cozy against your back. Tom remains dripping wet. A floor-length souvenir towel from your last trip to Cornwall provides enough frottage to pick up on every drop. You spend almost a minute kneading through his hair, watching his curls shift back and forth in little wound up strings. Fascinating.

“Can you close your eyes, please? I want to guide you somewhere.”

“Alright!”

You open the bathroom door first, and steam escapes into the little corridor. Tom’s hand rests firmly in yours when you step out first, him following with the towel wound from hip to hip and tucked in at the back. 

An idea crosses your mind.

Why not use the elastic band to blindfold him.

Not too tightly. 

But close enough to the skin so no puppy eye can peek out. 

He almost stumbles over your big turquoise gymnastics ball when entering the bedroom, alongside the slightly crooked rustic floor vase from last semester’s design project that you have to maneuver him around. Finally, you do arrive at the corner of the room with him. 

“Open.”

You remove the knot at the back of his head, easing off the elastic band. It falls onto his shoulders where it stays— Tom is frozen stiff, still realizing.

“Oh!

 


	7. Tech Giants

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Small chapter! You know what scene is coming.

“You said you liked the hammock, didn’t you.”

“Wow, awesome!”

“Come, we dry off here.”

Although you know the maximum weight limit of the construction to be around 200 kilogram or more, you are careful to lower into the fabric after Tom flings himself into the hammock first.

Maybe you do settle a bit awkwardly on him. But when was the last time there were two people in this hammock anyways.

You play with Tom’s hair in all nonchalance, and poke his cheeks until a sunrise smile emerges.

Maybe you do shove your body a bit upwards too much. He seems to notice how much you like to rub against him.

“Can I suck your—?”

“Sure, PJs.”

Tom’s humming mouth closes around your left breast. He keeps on cupping his lips until you ease onto him more, legs spreading. He raises a questioning brow as to his hands fumbling about your inner thighs.

“Go right ahead.”

It’s not immediate, but a pair of fingers ever so slowly finds their way between your legs. Flicking. Dipping. So much about cervical examination. Now his mouth slips off your chest.

“Your turn, you know. The rules.”

“Someone paid attention.”

Tom goes back to lapping at either of your nipples. Since the water started cooling off, so does your skin surrounded by his lips, his teeth. Whatever moves you gyrates your hips against Tom’s busy fingers. The strokes against your clit from two digits tell you that Mantis’ anatomy lesson certainly was not the only one babyface has had. Naïve?

No.

That he surely wasn’t. At least not as much as he himself thought.

 _‘Kinesthetic intelligence is a thing,’_  is what your P.E. teacher Barnes had always said. You’re starting to believe it.

Even though you can feel his palms not being just about the most accurate between your thighs, because he shakes enough with every bit of suction at your chest, what you suspected Tony had seen in him was true.

And what  _you_  suspected was true. 

Tom was good with girls. Good with coordination, for that matter, as Mantis would always say.

It wasn’t like sipping at his juice box. Tom’s yearning mouth makes your chest, your collarbones, your sternum tingly and properly wet for the little rascal to get so sloppy and desperate on it.

“Little faster for me? That’s hot.”

“Can I use both hands?” he almost slobbers with the amount of saliva smeared around his mouth, with his head buried between your breasts.

”Please show me.”

The stimulation that follows does not compare to anything Tom had done on the sofa by far margin. Not two, three, but four fingers, a pair from either side of your clit, brush against you at an apt pace. 

“Is that okay?”

You can barely nod.

“Little shit, where’d you learn that.”

“Ahm, I—”

Tom audibly slips into his shier of modes again, lids batting instead of blinking up right at you as before. Bullseye. 

He’s been taught.

“I won’t judge. She’s been a lucky girlfriend.”

Saying so already gets you out of breath. Tony Stark and the entire university can resign in terms of keeping you on your toes.

“Doubles,” he exhales, struggling to keep his fingers pointed. “I, I did a few double jobs. I’m sorry, this is probably weird.”

Pause. 

“What, sex double jobs for flicks?”

His hands slow a little.

“Yes. Serious movies, nothing really—”

“For real?

“Yes.”

That’s sexy.

“You’re brave to do these things.”

On camera. Maybe he wasn’t a stripper, but rather, some kind of, well.

“Pornstar. I’m not, I mean. it’s not what you think it’s like.”

“I know stunts and doubling aren’t porn. Who said that?”

Tom’s fingers come to a rather abrupt, awkward halt. You can see that he’s battling himself to answer. Eventually, he caves in under your questioning eyebrow.

“He saw one of these movies. I just told him I was a double in it and all. He connected the dots and knew it was me in the sex scene. I looked similar to the protagonist, that’s why I got the job.”

“Wait, who recognized you in there? Where?”

“Tony.”

“What!”

How much more could your jaw drop.

“In  _Tech Giants_.”

“Giants?”

“It’s a sciencey B horror movie. Robots in it and all that. Niche, campy, kind of ridiculous.”

Tom looks more shameful than ever. His hands can’t help but fumble around the edge of the hammock all aimless.

“Oh. That’s his genre. Man, fuck, he recognized you!” 

“Yeah, sucks.”

“He really thinks it’s porn?”

You bet Tony misinterpreted it. No surprise babyface thought Stark was looking at him strange all the time.

“Kind of. The scenes weren’t like the other ones I doubled in. I wanted to try something new.”

Tech Giants. 

You’d never heard of the film. It sounded like some Sci Fi blockbuster regardless. Famous it certainly wasn’t. But indeed niche enough to be known in the robotics community.

So Tom did have more stunt practice than you thought. And did some sex doubling.

With robots involved. 

Yes, machines.

Machines...

“Wait, wait a moment. Tom, what exactly did you sign up to double for? In Tech Giants.”

He keeps his head down. 

“It wasn’t easy to film. The scene was nine minutes long.”

The realization kicks in.

 

 

_You still rack your brain as to why Tony seemed to know what Tom was into. Clearly you had complained to Stark various times that you were bored to death and needed something really zany in your life for a change. Tony really got you covered for that one. No doubt. Meanwhile, Tom wouldn’t even let Stark into his apartment and regardless, Tony was sure about that the present was just perfect for Tom to be tried out on by you._

_Having written that Tom liked bizarre things._

_Stark knew — or perhaps, observed — something you didn’t. Something that was very much unlike the naïve Tom you knew._

 

 

Now it makes sense why glutes are so important. 

“You doubled for all of this, ten minutes straight?”

He fumbles with the edge of the hammock fabric on each side.

“Yeah I did.”

“Just how kinky was that? Not Mantis kinky. Kinky kinky.”

His voice drops lower.

“Promise you don’t laugh at me.”

“I can already guess.”

What else does a stunt actor do in a campy tech horror movie.

“Wait, you can?”

 


	8. Language, Rascal

You nod, get upright in the hammock.

“I get why Tony’s been trying to be a matchmaker.” 

Tom angles his head, reverts his gaze back to you.

“What do you mean?”

“Need to show you something, Tom.”

  


 

Stark’s letter lies idly in the farthest corner of the room, stuffed back into its casual envelope. Alongside the now discarded manual, with only the remote staying within your immediate reach. Outside, there’s more loud rain pooling on the balcony. Thunder crashes from past the Thames. Thank you, London skies. Loud enough to cover up.

Tying the gymnastic band feels all too rubbery, but then again, it sticks well to his wrists after layering it several times and making a jury-rigged knot. With Tom’s hands experiencing a lucky day because of how elastic it really is. He looks pretty, bound that way. 

“Safeword is _Rude Boy_ ,” you finish by checking the tightness of the band on his pressure points. Feels about right.

“Rihanna’s song!”

He’s blushing.

“And you, punk,” you poke into Tom’s right pec with two fingers. “With that body. That’s rude.”

“I’ll try my best to be offensive, th- then.”

You can get used to this.

You clear away your Star Trek print pajamas and a pot plant. Tom gets on all fours before you, aligning himself with the bulky red neon dildo. You still fiddle with the applicators after selecting and eyeballing everything twice. 

“Girthiest this box had.” 

“It, it does look big.”

“Don’t have lube here. But a bit of saliva and it slides just fine.”

“I like it.”

“Here it goes.”

You settle on the chair at your desk, surrounded by paper drafts, with the remote in your right, and a glass of water in the left. At the flick of the main switch, now, the machine begins to rattle a bit. As tested. 

“Can I?”

His eyes shift to the neon attachment for just about the tenth time in a row.

“Well I know your mouth is good,” you nod. 

The heavy thunder conceals the rattling noise just perfectly. Tom positions himself. You take a sip of water. And: Action.

Once his lips stretch lithe around the dildo, you level the remote at the body of the machine. The low speed setting begins to merely prod into Tom’s mouth. The thrusts are still minuscule. Shallow, to dip past his lips a little. Maybe just about two inches, as the manual would indicate.

“Looks good. Give me more spit.”

You can see him try to lubricate the shaft with some tongue movement, but ends up in a weird angle to the dildo. Correcting him with two fingers under his chin does the job until he tries again, and ends up making big eyes at you while the machine keeps on pumping back and forth. Whatever they used in the movie clearly was not a dildo as big as this one.

“Not so easy, hm. I know what we’ll do.”

Clicking the medium setting hollows out his cheeks and he struggles. Either of his hands on the ground waver. Still tied, both of them shoot up to grab his own throat. Tom’s Adam’s apple bulges out neatly to the frequency of jabs into his mouth. And after just a dozen strokes, some more saliva sputters out of the corners of his mouth. 

Gag reflex. 

The speed is hard on him. But Tom doesn’t choke as much as you thought he would. Your finger on the high-speed setting button is starting to get nervous at the temptation of just one click, with the promise to see more of his neck bulging. 9 minutes, he said. The medium speed remains punishing, not failing one thrust. 

“Jaw loose, babe.”

Your two fingers tap at the underside of his chin again. The more Tom stretches his lips, the more you can hear him gag along to the monotone push and pull of the dildo making his runny mouth slicker.

“We might as well practice for the oral exam. Right here and now if you want.”

After putting away the glass of water, you place your foot on his back to keep the steep arch just the way it is. A little speed increase on the remote makes Tom buckle underneath you all the more.

“Hhn—!”

He chokes up. 

You reach toward the applicator box settled on the desk, foot still in place. After a bit of browsing, a one-way microfiber cloth in a flat plastic wrap and a plentitude of condoms eventually see the light of this greyed day. Dialing down the fucking machine’s rhythm comes with bumbling protest from Tom almost immediately, but regardless, you decrease speed. 

“Got some more ideas. You’re liking it?”

Tom’s mouth slowly eases off the barely prodding dildo, and he turns to you all sloppy around the chin. Dripping. Your carpet needs a deep cleaning anyways.

“I want more!”

You wave with both the plastic wrap and condom. “Worked out your glutes today, Tom?”

No movie sets counted. Although you doubt he was busy filming anything if he got to boulder and work out. 

“Not— yet? Just did a few squats for breakfast.”

“I can give you more than exercise.”

“Sounds good.”

Pause. You stop the machine completely, then turn to untie the elastic band. Still, the lightning flashes up in the distance. Tossing him one of the purple condoms doesn’t prompt a flat-out miss like you thought it would be. 

“Good catch. Stunt reflex?”

Sexy.

“Not getting thrown lubed condoms every day,” Tom inspects the violet packaging. In the meantime, you remove the microfiber from the plastic, revealing the cloth to be screamingly neon yellow all over. How fitting. It really does come with everything. You’ll have to brief Tony about using his accidental investment to its full potential. 

“If you clean it like the dishes, I’ll indulge you with max speed.”

Tom doesn’t blink twice. He grabs hold of the microfiber piece and begins to wipe down the attachment. And eventually, rolls down the condom on it. His eyes shift to your box after it is tight in place.

“Can I prep with one of the jelly things—?” 

“I got something else for you in there.”

  


 

Tom moans out loud, winding. 

“Oh shit! Fuck, fuck, oh my god!”

“Hey. Language, rascal.”

Is what janitor Rogers would say. Maybe to put some kids from the yard in their place.

To shoo Rogers out of your thoughts— One speed level higher. With some intervals to provide some proper momentum. The machine keeps whirring. Judging by the digital clock on your nightstand, Rhodes is still at work, gladly. 

“Fuck, my ass!”

You see either of his legs spread wider. Tom’s expression turns all the more gritted with the machine pumping the dildo inside of him with a rougher pace. Thank God that condom is lubricated enough. 

“You’re bendy.”

Or more wobbly in the limbs, you can hardly tell. Ever since you stuffed him with the butt plug, where stuntman Holland ends and contortionist stripper Tom begins has been obscure to you. 

“I did— ballet!”

Ballet.

“Now that’s hot.”

You take your time wrapping up the elastic band demonstratively slow before him, the remote in your lap. The speed stagnates like during the first test. Nevertheless, it brings Tom into a moaning frenzy.

“Oh Jesus.”

His palms tremble flat on the carpet. You can see the rug burn coming. 

“Jesus? You’re giving me ideas.”

“Hnn—!”

Maybe that’s no bad idea at all. You shove up the bath gown that had since covered you, but now, revealing still slightly damp calves. He blinks up at you.

“Wanna kiss em? Gotta hold still enough.”

“I’m, I’m down Y/N.”

Tom’s mouth looks as if he does take on the challenge. Coming up at your ankles, and landing a sloppy peck with pursed lips — yet still, half off target. So much about Jesus and kissing feet. 

“Second try.”

You encourage him by shifting your toes even closer toward wherever his chin seems to sway the most often given the vibrations, the shaking, the trembles. Picking up the remote from your lap comes with a glossy look from Tom hanging at your foot with his lips in desperation.

Now. 

Full speed.


	9. Hey, Le Corbusier!

The pneumatics of the machine are working overtime. Tom’s entire body goes under strain. He’s gasping out. Redder in the face than when you caught him naked. 

“Fuck…!”

What music to your ears.

The red of the dildo continuously vanishes about three quarters in Tom. You trust whatever eye Tony has for assessing actual fucking machines to be a durable unit. But until now, everything is going smoothly. No Onion headline. Eros does its work just fine, plowing away at Tom’s asshole with a stomping rhythm.

Maybe you could press rotation on the remote. 

But as if the current speed mode doesn’t pound the rascal into oblivion already. 

The momentum of the device continuously pushes him forward, but neither his ballet or stunt skill, who the hell knows at this point, makes him revert back, and back, holding his position so well that praise comes with so much ease. 

“Good job, lovely. Look into my eyes, Tom.”

He does.

“Yes. Yes, Y/N?”

“I want to tell you that—”

The doorbell shrieks up. 

Not the friendly  _ding dong_  that Stark has installed in his flat, not the little  _ping_  of Ramonda’s antiquated one. A full-blown shrieking. 

Tom lets himself fall forward enough to slip off the dildo. 

“Fuck!”

Not music to your ears.  

You almost drop the remote. More shrieking. Aggressive. Obnoxious, even. 

“We’re screwed!”

Red button. Red button. Where’s the red button. Your fingers shake too much. 

The doorbell just won’t cease. Eventually, the machine does halt. You throw the remote into the hammock.

“Hide behind the partition!”

Tom couldn’t be any more pale. 

The rain stopped pouring. No more thunder to cover up.

  


 

“Goddamn, you prick!”

“You didn’t see that coming, huh.”

The shapely 5′11 frame of Pietro Maximoff leans right where once Stark’s present led. Clad in his usual blue tracksuit, with a wet parka on top. You don’t even have to open half the door to see in what kind of frivolous mood he’s in. 

“Rogers will come and grill us! Why did you do that?”

“I don’t know,” he shrugs, inane, layering on the thickest Russian accent you’ve ever heard him do. “Something’s wrong when your phone is off. Gotta ring twice there.”

“Why are you here, Pietro. You know I’m busy with exams.”

“Wanda saw you at the library.”

“And?”

“Looking a bit disheveled, are we.”

Pietro gazes up and down your bathrobe. He leans in a bit more — and you: backwards. 

“I’m not disheveled!”

Not from studying, that is.

“She said you looked preoccupied. I figured we could invite you to the party next Friday.”

Of course. Wanda was in the design course. You met to study last semester. And she sat close while you were thinking about the box. Didn’t you bump into her? 

It’s all hard to remember. The mystery gift really did leave you preoccupied for the day.

Still.

“Why did Wanda send you?”

Out of all people.

“I’m fast. Always running.”

Pietro points at his tracksuit and shiny white trainers. 

“You don’t say.”

Wanda talks about Pietro’s 100-meter sprints all day. 

“Seriously, I have an entrance exam soon. Gotta stay in shape. Wanda has our parents’ loft available for the whole night. Very posh stuff. She thought you’d be perfect there.”

“Well, okay?”

Party with the Russians. Right after your presentation. Maybe not the worst way to let loose after a stressful day. But with Pietro showing up to invite you? 

“At 7. Coulson Street.”

“What, Chelsea?!”

“Check your phone. Am back to training!”

Pietro already detaches from the door, stretching both of his arms and doing squats.

“What entrance exam requires you to run around town to invite people for Wanda? In the fucking rain?”

“I’ll do everything for my sis.”

“Said no brother ever.”

“Stunt academy. I do parkour around here. Might as well pay you a visit. I’d still do anything for her, though.”

“Stunt aca—!”

“See you Friday!”

Fastening his parka, he turns. Headed for the staircase already. Of course he doesn’t take the elevator. How would he.

“Ah, alright.”

“Bye bye! You have nice furnishings!”

Soft, but quickened imprints of trainers echo in the corridor. 

And the blue silhouette disappears. 

You exhale. 

Pietro Maximoff. 

You make a mental note to check your phone. It must have blown up.

Now that the staircase remains entirely silent, you adjust your bathrobe and turn backwards into your apartment. However, another sound startles you. 

A strange, metal rope-like noise.

It’s not the machine, no. The machine has a much higher sound.

You gaze back into the corridor, however, ready to slip back into your flat at every second. Ever since your doorbell went ham, everything is in shambles.

Too late. 

Rumbling and heavy, the aluminum doors of the elevator eject both a small and dignified figure, accompanied by another, somewhat petite outline. 

With both advancing, you realize it’s Tony.

Smirking from cheek to cheek in his Black Sabbath shirt, orange shades, and a cross-body bag, with Ramonda left of him, fresh from the salon with new braids, and her favorite white crochet jacket.

“Hey, Le Corbusier!” Tony lifts his shades.

 


	10. Tony Paid For Strudel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I'm putting out mini chapters but that holds me accountable :D Hope everyone's enjoying the story <3

You cross your arms. 

“Corbusier was an architect, Stark. Not an interior designer.”

“One and the same,” he taps his foot stopping short before your flat. “Anyway. I saw the box was gone.”

“Yeah, the box.”

Ramonda narrows her eyes, gazing from Tony to you, and from you back to Tony. 

“What box?”

You feel cold sweat running down your back already. Nevertheless, you feel obligated to answer because Tony keeps his pokerface.

“Supplies for furniture,” you say. “Robotics stuff.”

Technically, it’s not untrue. You couldn’t pardon your conscience lying to Ramonda. 

“Robots only create issues,” Ramonda ceases to gaze back and forth and starts to rummage in her ‘OLYMPIC GAMES 1948 London’ fabric bag. “I don’t know what’s going on with this generation.”

“Robots are okay,” you side-eye Tony. “As long as they don’t  _explode or something_.”

“No worries,” Stark pulls out a pair of keys from his left jeans pocket. “You can have the IQ of a toast and manage not make a robot combust.”

“You and your toast thing.”

“Look. They sell strudel for 1.50 £ at the bakery,” Ramonda hands you a little, light brown paper packet. You clasp it tight feeling the puff pastry crinkle a bit inside. It’s quite a big portion. 

“Sponsored by none other than moi,” Tony adds, while Ramonda closes her Olympics bag again, shoulders it, and puts on her infamous smile of enigma. 

“No raisins,” she says. “As you like it.”

“Thank you, Monda!” 

“Thank you  _Tony_ ,” she leans in whispering, pointing at Stark who already gets busy opening his mailbox at the other end of the corridor. “I think he’s more generous these days. Still thinks he knows what’s best for everyone around him. But since Rogers held a pep talk...”

“Steve?”

Resident role model janitor he is. 

“One of his sermons on morals. I think Tony took it to heart.”

“Oh I see.”

That’s good. 

“Looks like you’re not the only one making progress.”

You’re bewildered. Ramonda, now with not just her mysterious smile but also the mysterious wink, nods her head toward your apartment.

Still, you don’t understand—

Until you hear the familiar high pitch.

“Is everything okay here?”

Both you and Tony spin around almost simultaneously as if the earlier thunderstorm had sent down a particularly potent lightning strike into the house. Stark almost drops the tech newspaper from his mailbox. Tom, fighting hard against the obvious limp in his walk, waddles toward the door from the darkness of the flat, then, emerges behind you in nothing other than your Star Trek pajamas. 

“It’s good to see you have company, Y/N,” Ramonda pats your shoulder and fumbles out her own keys from the Olympics bag. “Enjoy the strudel.”

“O— okay, Monda.”

With Tom’s presence, in fact, him being only meters away from Tony, you couldn’t feel any smaller now. Especially with Stark towering at the other side of the corridor, using his rolled up newspaper to furiously point at Tom and make himself look taller.

“You, you like Star Trek?!”

“I, I’ve watched it, Mister Stark.”

“Greatly underestimated you, underoos,” Tony lifts a brow. You demonstratively stay in front of Tom to block the view enough for Stark not to realize that your pajamas don’t fit Tom at all. If only he had waited in the bedroom. You already prepare for the embarrassment of your life.

However, and to your utmost surprise, silence follows, with Tom merely gazing at Tony with his newspaper and Ramonda, who is still fiddling with her bag.

“Pietro was here before them,” you turn just enough to address Tom to break the awkwardness. “He invited me to a house party. For Wanda. She’s, she’s at my uni. I think you might be familiar with him. He said something about entering stunt academy.”

“Of course I know him! He trains with the team once a month! I never knew Wanda studies with you?”

You hum, and nod at Tom. 

“Figured.”

In the meantime, Tony looks wholly disoriented and not on top of the world. Thank god. It helps your anguish calm down a little. But the jingling noise of keys interrupts you.

“Are you an athlete?” Ramonda asks, gazing past your shoulder to meet Tom’s eyes.

“Yeah, gymnast.”

“I like the generation these days.”

You shrug at Tony. Tony shrugs back. 

Perplexed, you watch Ramonda trot down the hallway. Stark turns to select the 9-digit security code at his door. A special design. 

“You heard her,” he gives off a smirk over his shoulder. “You’re in for Shawarma with Rogers on Sunday by the way, if you want.”

And disappears as fast as he came from the elevator just a dozen minutes ago. 

Tom and you are left blinking into the nowhere that is the wall plastering. The corridor is as calm as it was before, except for the faint babbling of Ramonda’s TV omitting noises of a cheerful audience. Decathlon, or some other sport thing. 

“Tony paid for strudel,” you lift the packet before Tom’s face. 

  


 

Sloppy noises. Sucking. Way too much saliva involved to leave the sheets immaculate, but just enough to provide perfect lubrication.

“You’re doing that too well. Shit.”

“Mmh—”

About the fifth iteration of Rihanna’s discography makes the window glass, although subtly, pulse with a persistent bass. Maybe you shouldn’t have texted Wanda about how much Tom likes her earlier albums upon the innocuous question ‘any music wishes for the DJ?’. Which happens to be Pietro himself, working the turntable downstairs. Having put Holland, T. on the guest list faster than Tony telling the whole neighbourhood that you agreed to join Shawarma on Sunday. 

So that’s how you ended up in Chelsea. The poshest district of London.

Tom briefly lifts his head to wipe his lips, a little hasty, with his left wrist.

“Still owe you that orgasm,” he says.


	11. Keep It Simple

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last bit <3 Thank you for reading, been a blast to write. If I get another idea, I might revisit the MCU again in the future. Especially with Endgame coming up either way.

“You still can’t sit properly. What on earth do you owe me.”

In a way, he did sacrifice his ass for you.

“Lots. I wanna use tongue. Please.”

His voice is meek, his face half shaded in the dim of the room.

“I’m too close Tom, fucking hell. I’ll blow up.”

“I’ll be slow, Y/N,” he fondles alongside your thighs, both hands gently tracing.

The hazel gaze just underlines how much he’s oozing politeness. And spit.

You’re far too aroused to admit that you could use some of his stunt guy stamina.

“Swear you don’t go all bonkers.”

Permit for tongue. Risky, but well. What can you do. He’s not just a good masseur with his hands.

“No bonkers things. I promise.”

Tom couldn’t work out, meaning, wear himself out today. He was more nervous than you were about the oral exam.

“Go as fast as my hands show you, okay. Rules.”

Maybe you’ve come to terms with being embarrassed by how easily he turns you on. And you didn't even have that much tea today. 

Not that he’d ever be fully aware of his effect. As always. But living with the fact that some curly head next door could get you an accidental social life and flipping your frustration a metaphorical bird without even blinking—

You anchor your fingers at the crown of his head, guiding it past the plaits of your skirt.

Downstairs, cheering.

Pietro changes from Rihanna to the Russian charts. Tom is too preoccupied making his tongue work around your clit, while you watch the Thames.

Wanda’s parents were clever enough to locate the guest room in the part of the building far up from the street, but with a glass front allowing a decent nocturnal view without much obstruction.

Once a dinner cruise, lit up in bright colors, makes its way down the river, you tug at Tom’s tank top to make him look, but he barely twitches.

There’s no avail.

You know very well that no boat in the world can distract you from how hot it is what he so dexterously manages to do.

So hot. 

His tongue doesn’t go bonkers, and his head follows the rhythm of your hands rather than the pumping Russian beats from the party area that turn out to be much more lascivious than you thought.

But he’s too apt finding the right spot, snaking his tongue back and forth and making the plaits of your skirt dance in the neon lights, softly making the pocket sprung mattress of the guest bed bounce. 

You gyrate your hips, tilt them just right for him to sink in his face and pleasuring you deeply. Kissing your most sensitive spots. 

Hips don't lie, surely not. 

Your own hands have plenty of room to fondle Tom's arms, too, visiting his collar bones on the occasion, but always turning back to his hair. Smelling like almond shampoo. It's not one of his double scenes, but it's like some movie, in a way.

 

As if Mantis would have her office set up just in the corner of the room, and the camera was running— your toes are a bit tingly.

“If Pietro and Wanda have time for Shawarma,” you fasten your grip in his hair, “we could compensate.”

Tom resurfaces.

“For our absence downstairs, you mean?”

“Kinda.”

“We could invite them just because. Isn’t Tony always looking for more people to join?”

Yes. He couldn’t be any more liberal with it, in fact.

“I’m thinking too much again.”

“You just completed all exams,” he shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it. We'll have pizza later. I can use the massage roller if you want.”

He’s right. You’ve had reasons to stress yourself out.

But not anymore. With the music downstairs melting into suave rhythms, and the Thames lighting up with warm yellow skyscraper accents. Not one bit of midnight rain.

_Do it the Tom way. Keep it simple. Ayurvedic Relaxation._

When you go back home together, the hammock awaits to swing you into the sweetest of London's dreams. 

Sometimes, it’s good to let your frustrations go. 

You recline in the pillows and pull your skirt up a bit more. Tom follows the direction of your fingers and goes on letting his tongue wander.

Now that was perfectly obvious to you: This guy wasn’t rude.


End file.
